


Rust and Stardust

by sammyatstanford



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Light Bondage, M/M, Pre-Series, Underage Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:02:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1441060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyatstanford/pseuds/sammyatstanford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sam.” Dean’s voice, ragged, breaks the silence. “You have to stop this.” Sam opens his mouth to feign innocence, but Dean’s fingers dig into his leg. “Don’t start. You think I don’t know what you’re doing? What you’ve been doing?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rust and Stardust

Distract Dean was a game Sam had been playing for his entire life. When he was younger, it wasn’t even intentional. Crawling in Dean’s lap with a book when Dean was trying to clean Dad’s guns, complaining he was hungry when Dean was trying to read, asking to go outside when Dean was making dinner. He got a little better at entertaining himself as he got older, but the tiny motel rooms and dilapidated rental houses were old and tiny and _so boring_ , Dean was all he really had, and playing with Dean was a lot more interesting than reading the same comic book for the fourteenth time or working on Latin declensions or sharpening knives. Especially when he figured out that Dean sometimes got annoyed—annoying Dean was even better than just distracting him. 

The game changed after Sam turned fifteen and started getting taller, started developing some muscle mass to back up all those hours he spent training, started looking a little more like a strong, lean man and a little less like a short, soft boy. Because Sam wasn’t stupid. Sam was actually very smart and very observant and thought maybe one day he’d make a pretty good cop or, even better, lawyer because he had a natural feel for the body language and non-verbal cues that gave away what people were really thinking when their mouths were saying something else. 

So Sam knew that when Dean said, “Eat something, you’re a bag of bones,” what he meant was “I like the way you’re filling out.” And when Sam sprawled out on the couch even though Dean was on it with him, Dean may have said, “Get the hell off me,” but Dean meant, “I can’t stand it when you touch me because I want to touch you back.” And when Sam did his homework at the kitchen table shirtless because the air conditioner was broken, sweat in the hollows of his collarbones, Dean didn’t have to say anything at all. 

So yeah, maybe Sam did those things on purpose, and maybe Sam was kind of a dick for it, but Dean sure spent a lot of time distracting Sam with his bowlegs and the freckled skin of his back and the Sammy-only smile that lit up Dean’s face every time Sam got a good grade or made a funny joke or was still alive when Dean got home from a hunt. After all, turnabout was always fair play. 

Today, Sam is playing one of the silent distraction games, the sexual tension equivalent of sing-songing I’m-not-touching-you with his hand hovering an inch from Dean’s face. Sam is on his first day of spring break, and so he’s cleaning up the shack they’re renting before Dad gets back tomorrow and whisks him off to do a bunch of shit he doesn’t want to be doing. He’s got the windows cracked as wide as they’ll go to let in the sunny spring air, and he’s wearing a ragged hand-me-down t-shirt of Dean’s with holes in the collar just the right size for Dean’s thumbs to press into. There’s a bandanna tied over his floppy hair, fringe of bangs poking out and sweaty across his forehead. He’s already gotten the dingy kitchen as close to sparkling as it’ll ever be, and now he’s bent over the dinner table, arms stretched out to reach the far side, the legs of his cutoff shorts riding up a little to reveal a few inches of the back of his thighs where he’s paler because he doesn’t get sun there in his swimsuit. He sometimes lets out soft little grunting sounds as he wipes the rag back and forth over the wood. 

The comfortable sounds of Dean sitting around, the breathing and magazine pages flipping and little puffs of laughter as he reads this-or-that, stopped about five minutes ago. Sam doesn’t have to look to know he’s being watched. 

Quite frankly, Sam is getting a little sick of the staring. And the gulping and the aborted brushes of fingers that almost touch the back of his neck and the fluttering of eyelashes as Dean glances down and away. Mostly, Sam’s pretty good at getting what he wants. He can charm the cafeteria ladies into giving him double portions because he’s got liquid eyes and he’s hungry all the time. He can get witnesses to spill their guts while they get lemonade in the kitchen for Dad, the one posing as an actual authority figure, with a soothing hand and an empathetic tone. But Sam knows he can’t exactly go pout at Dean and look up through his eyelashes and whisper in his ear “Every time I stuff myself with my fingers I’m wishing it were you.” Dean is the thing Sam knows best, and Sam knows he’s got to be careful with this play. He’s spent months tearing at Dean’s resistance, getting him pliable enough that this whole thing might actually go somewhere.

 Sam can be very patient for a sixteen-year-old. 

He finishes the table, sweeps the floor, being sure to bend over low to get at all the crumbs hiding out around the table legs. He puts away his cleaning supplies, and he can see out of the corner of his eye how the line of tension in Dean’s shoulders relaxes because he thinks he’s not going to have to studiously-avoid-looking-while-actually-looking at Sam’s ass anymore. He _thinks_. 

Sam pulls out the small, shitty, essentially suction-free vacuum cleaner he bought at a pawn shop when Dad paid down the rent on the house for six months, plugs it in, and wheels it to the back of the living room—if one could call the dirty refrigerator box with barely enough room for the couch and coffee table a living room. He flips the switch, humming “Wheel in the Sky” as he swipes the ineffectual hunk of plastic back and forth over the threadbare carpet behind the couch, to each side, and around in front of the coffee table. Dean’s tossed his magazine to the side and is polishing the grip of a disassembled gun so intently, Sam wouldn’t be surprised if his thumbprints burned through the rag and etched into the metal. He’s staring at the table with blank concentration, except every time the lean muscles of Sam’s arm bunch and flex with the push and pull of the vacuum, the muscles of Dean’s jaw visibly twitch.

Sam turns off the vacuum, clicks it upright. He crosses into the space between the sofa and coffee table—the sprawl of Dean’s legs into the gap closes up and shifts quickly way, so there’s no chance they will brush against any part of Sam. Sam smirks to himself. 

“Gonna move this,” is all he says, and then he’s got his back to Dean, bending over the coffee table with his arms spanned over its surface, hands gripping either end to lift it and shift it forward in what is one of the least efficient ways to move a table but most effective ways to get his ass in his brother’s face. 

Sam’s spreading his legs a little wider, arching his back, preparing to actually lift the table, when Dean’s hand is suddenly, shockingly, resting on the back of his left thigh, fingertips just below the curve of his ass. It’s just touching, no gripping or grasping, but Sam feels the heat bleeding through the denim. He’d thought there would be weeks at least before Dean actually _touched_ him; Sam had a plan, and that plan did not take into account this possibility. His brain is too busy putting on a modest fireworks display that spells out _Finally!_ in sparkly green and gold to actually come up with a way to respond. He knows this moment is fragile, the pause before the firing pin slips and there’s either a burst of power and violence or the hollow click of a misfire, knows he needs to do something, just doesn’t know what. 

Sam realizes he isn’t breathing, forces himself to inhale, and it shakes into his lungs and down his legs. 

“Sam.” Dean’s voice, ragged, breaks the silence. “You have to stop this.” Sam opens his mouth to feign innocence, but Dean’s fingers dig into his leg. “Don’t start. You think I don’t know what you’re doing? What you’ve _been_ doing?” His fingers squeeze again and a small whimper escapes Sam’s throat. He’s awkwardly half-crouched over the coffee table, head bowed and staring at the disarray of gun parts on the marred wood surface, but the heat of Dean’s palm is holding him in place more effectively than any restraint. He can feel the way his breath is trying to speed up, body trying to lose control, and he reins it back in. 

Dean stands up behind him, gets one foot between Sam’s legs and the other to the side and slightly in front, pressing in and encouraging Sam to stand up fully. The hand on the back of Sam’s thigh slides upward, dragging on the denim and hooking around his hip, holding him close enough that he can feel the friction between their clothes, far enough that there’s no touching. Sam’s only an inch or so shorter than his brother, but he feels like the Dean behind him is huge, looming. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, little brother,” Dean says, but it’s more of a growl in Sam’s ear, damp breath on Sam’s neck that sends prickles down the flesh of his arms. 

“I do know,” Sam insists. He’s staring at the wall across the room, willing his body not to melt into the heat of Dean behind him because this is a fight and Sam wants to win. _Needs_ to win. He reaches his hands back behind him, around the back of Dean’s thighs, trying to press away the distance between them. “I know, Dean. I know, and I _want it anyway_.”

Dean’s chuckle is dark and heavy on his skin. “You’re a kid, and you have no idea what you want.” If Sam couldn’t feel the tension radiating off Dean, he’d think his brother was deliberately trying to rile him up. 

But the comment still sends a stab of hot anger spiraling down into this gut, and he shakes off Dean’s grip and spins around, feeling Dean’s hands trying to gain purchase and stop him. He gets his hands up, presses his fists in below Dean’s collarbones. “I’m not too much of a kid to shoot a gun, or torch a ghost, or watch everyone I care about run headfirst into danger all the time.” He’s glaring up at Dean fiercely. “And I’m not too much of a kid to know what I want. _Who_ I want.”         

Dean is shaking his head. “Sam, this is new to you, and you’re just—.” 

“I’ve been _literally_ dreaming about your cock since I was twelve, Dean, I don’t think I’m fucking _confused_.” 

Dean just stares at Sam, head cocked slightly to one side.

 _Fine_. “Want you, Dean,” Sam says, lets the vowels and his limbs go loose, rubbing his words into Dean’s neck and his body into Dean’s chest. “Need you to touch me, never wanted anyone else.” He arches his back, pulls his shirt off with one hand, knocks the bandanna askew, gets the other hand around the back of Dean’s neck. “Always thought of you, every time I touched myself, every time someone touched me. Wanted it to be you.” He leans in, noses along under Dean’s jawline, lets his breath fan over the sensitive skin there like Dean did to him earlier. “Know you want me, too. Know you want me.” Pulls back, lets his eyes go baby brother soft. “Don’t you want me, Dean?” 

Sam blinks and before his eyes can re-open, his back is on the couch cushions and Dean is over him, looming again. The look on his face is so intense Sam feels like his skin is melting. “’Course I fuckin’ want you, you filthy little tease,” Dean growls, and he shoves Sam’s head back with one thick-fingered hand, scrapes his teeth down the line of Sam’s throat. “Messin’ with me for months, drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy.” Dean’s other hand rubs roughly against the half-hard bulge in Sam’s shorts, moves up to pop open the button. Sam groans. “Want your big brother to fuck you, baby boy? No idea what you’re getting into.” Sam doesn’t know if the words are even for him, but they’re getting him so hot his legs are twitching. 

Dean lets go of his face long enough to tear Sam’s shorts down and off his legs, and then those perfect hands are gripping his chin and in his hair, tilting his head back, opening his mouth so Dean can unceremoniously get his tongue between Sam’s teeth, filthy and overwhelming. Sam’s mind is scrabbling, trying to keep up with every sensation as the fist in his hair pulls and pulls until something between a moan and whimper falls into Dean’s mouth. 

Dean pulls back, and Sam gasps for air. “No idea the things I’m gonna do to you,” he warns, and his voice is as dark as his eyes. He tugs the bandanna out of Sam’s hair, steps away, and Sam writhes at the loss of contact, cheap fabric of the couch harsh on his naked skin. 

“On your stomach,” Dean orders, and Sam almost falls off the couch completely in his haste to comply. Because this? This is a thousand times better than anything Sam had imagined, Dean’s gun callouses rubbing rough down his spine. A million times better, Dean grabbing Sam’s wrists, locking them behind his back. Infinity times better, Dean deftly securing his hands with the bandanna in a knot that Sam could never slip without a knife. 

Not that he’s inclined to try. 

Dean pulls him up by the shoulder, pushes him back down on the other end of the couch so that he’s on his back now, settles himself on the cushions by Sam’s feet, presses Sam’s legs up and out so that he’s open and exposed, and stares for a long moment. Sam feels the flush spread down his chest. “Dean,” he protests, but it just makes Dean’s eyes flash up to his sharply. 

“Shut that pretty mouth,” Dean says, pinching the skin just below his butt cheek, hard. Sam yelps, nods, lets Dean go back to looking, and then yelps again as Dean starts working his way up Sam’s inner thigh from the knee with sharp nips and sucking kisses that have little noises panting out of Sam’s mouth with his breath. Sam tries to squirm, wants even a bump of contact on his now-fully hard cock, but Dean’s got those big, capable hands pressing him down into the couch and he can’t get any leverage with his legs spread and _fuck_. Dean finishes one leg, leaves it glowing with the hot sting of stubble burn as he moves over to the other, completely ignoring Sam’s dick, and the groan that comes out of Sam is long and frustrated when Dean finishes the second leg an age later but just shifts up to Sam’s stomach. 

Sam’s brain is losing its grasp on reality, and he’s starting to sort of blank out on the sensations, caught up in a wave of pleasure dotted with little sparks of pain where Dean puts his teeth, but he comes slamming back in when Dean drags his tongue over Sam’s nipple, wet and rough and _so good_ , and then closes his lips and bites hard, massages the nub with his teeth, lets it go only to come at it again and again. A hand is tormenting Sam’s other nipple into equally rosy attention, and it’s too much and not enough and Sam’s wrists are going raw from his struggling to get out of the restraints, because he needs a hand on himself and a hand on Dean like six hours ago and he’s probably going to die, here on this shitty couch, and then how will Dean feel about being such a goddamn asshole? 

He doesn’t want it to, but “please” falls out of his mouth before he can stop it. Dean—finally—lets up on the attention to his left nipple. His lips are red and swollen and shiny as he grins, feral, up at Sam, and Sam wants to feel them with his tongue. 

“Oh, little tease doesn’t want to be teased? Little tease can dish it out but he can’t take it?” 

Sam lets his eyes close. He feels strung out and frustrated and _so fucking turned on_ , more than he’s ever been, and he never wants to stop and he just wants to come and he doesn’t know what to say to get Dean to do _any of those things_. 

Dean’s fingers tap him on the cheekbone. “Sam,” he says firmly, and Sam opens his eyes again. Dean’s face is up by his, and the concern Sam sees there, so familiar from a lifetime of being taken care of, soothes down the edges of his frayed nerves. He doesn’t know which Dean he loves more, the one that finally made a move and tied him up and has him shaking and sweating in the middle of the living room, or the one that’s asking, “Are you okay?” The fact that he gets both is sexier than anything that’s happened in the past hour. 

Sam nods, bends himself forward awkwardly to press his forehead against Dean’s. “Love you,” he says, which isn’t what he meant to say at all. Dean pulls back an inch, eyes intent on Sam’s face, and seems to get what Sam’s trying to say—that this is more than okay. It’s everything Sam’s wanted for four years, probably longer. 

Sam’s consent confirmed, Dean lets his face harden over again. “None of that romantic comedy bullshit, princess,” he growls, and sticks two fingers in Sam’s mouth when Sam opens it to respond. The flood of spit onto his tongue is accompanied by the drip of precome from his cock onto his belly. Sam sucks on the fingers, loves those fucking fingers, lets his tongue run all over them, and then his eyes are rolling back in his head and he’s pressing into Dean’s skin with an edge of teeth as Dean’s fingers slide along the roof of his mouth, hook behind his teeth and ease him forward until Sam is shimmying up into an almost-seated position against the arm of the couch. The other hand grabs behind his knees and spins him so his feet are spilling off onto the floor. 

Dean pulls the wet fingers out of his mouth. “You wanna touch or you wanna talk?” he asks. 

“Touch,” Sam says, no question. Dean quirks an eyebrow at him. _Like you can shut your mouth_. “Touch,” Sam insists, more firmly. Dean nods, reaches his arms around Sam, undoes the knot in the bandanna without even needing to look. Sam gets his arms out from behind him, rolls his wrists to get the feeling back into his fingers, and breathes out a high “oh” as he fondles the raw, red skin ringing them. 

Dean drags the bandanna up the inside of Sam’s arm, and Sam shivers at the light touch. More precome. God, it’s like his dick is fucking crying, it wants someone to touch it so badly. 

Dean’s holding the bandanna in front of Sam’s face. “Open,” Dean commands, and Sam relaxes his jaw, lets Dean shove the bandanna into his mouth and secure it behind his head. It tastes like musty duffel bag and sweat. Sam makes a face. 

Dean shrugs. “You chose,” is all he offers, and then he’s dropping to his knees in between Sam’s legs and _shit shit shit_ Sam’s gotten blown a few times before but he’s never almost come on someone’s face just from the sight of big plush lips kissing a halo around the base of him, where the dusting of pubic hair has started to darken and thicken as Sam’s gotten older. 

“So pretty, baby boy.” Dean mouths the words into his skin. Sam’s protest is muffled into the gag. “So soft and pretty for me.” And then he licks a hot stripe up the side of Sam’s cock and the cloth in Sam’s mouth eats up his scream. He’s so sensitive from waiting to be touched—so incredibly fucking sensitive he didn’t even know it was possible to feel like this, pleasure-soaked and shaky everywhere, like he’s two seconds from floating through the roof and into orbit. He gets a hand in Dean’s hair, rubs it through the short strands again and again, trying to ground himself as Dean mouths wetly up and down him and finally wraps those perfect lips around the head of his cock. 

His mouth wants to say something like “holymotherfuckingshitgoddamnDeanyourmouthissexandperfection” and he’s sort of glad the bandanna is preventing crap like that from coming out because he’s pretty sure Dean would tease him for it later, so he settles for biting into fabric and moaning, sucking his own spit and sweat back out of it in synchrony with Dean sucking him. It’s so good, so incredibly _stupidly_ good, and Sam knows he’s not gonna last. But Dean’s got a hand stroking over Sam’s stomach, must feel the tension building in his abs, or maybe it’s the way the noises coming out of Sam are becoming more like whimpers, but whatever tips him off, Dean squeezes a hand around the base of Sam’s dick and pulls his mouth away. 

“If you come without my fingers in your ass, I’m taking care of myself in the bathroom and locking you out.” Sam clenches his hands into fists and digs in with his fingernails, tries not to come at the thought that _holy shit Dean might actually fuck him today_. He nods weakly. “That’s my boy. Now touch yourself until I get back. Eyes closed.” 

Sam obeys immediately, wraps a hand around himself, still slick with Dean’s spit, starts jacking himself as quickly as he can without pushing himself over the edge because he knows that’s what Dean expects, doesn’t want Dean to come out and see him not obeying. His ears track Dean’s footsteps down the hall, hear the door to the bathroom creak as Dean goes inside, a pause, Dean’s footsteps heading back to the living room. And stopping. Sam keeps his eyes closed like he was told, but he knows Dean is watching, can feel the heat of his gaze, imagines him biting into the pillow of his lower lip as he watches Sam’s hand sliding, up and down, twisting and thumbing at the head on each pass. Sam’s breath chokes in his throat as he tries to call out his brother’s name. _Dean, get over here, touch me please touch me_. 

Sam is frantic by the time the footsteps resume, easing up his grip because he’s _thisclose_ to spilling all over his fist. 

“So good for me,” Dean murmurs, and Sam feels eyelashes on his cheekbone before Dean brushes a kiss over his lips where they’re stretched numbly over the gag. He knocks Sam’s hands away and straddles Sam’s lap, careful to keep himself lifted away from Sam’s cock where it’s twitching and pulsing with the need for release, and Sam can feel that he’s finally _finally_ gotten rid of his clothes, chest and legs naked where they press against Sam’s. Sam lets his hands slide up the outside of Dean’s thighs, rubbing the hair he knows is blonde and almost invisible, wishing he could see it. 

“So good, baby boy,” Dean repeats, this time into Sam’s ear as he reaches around, unties the bandanna, tosses it to the side. He presses kisses against Sam’s bloodless, numb mouth, pulls his jaw open, slips his tongue inside. The slow, sensuous press of it mapping out his mouth is a direct counterpoint to the furious rush of blood through Sam’s body, and it calms him down, pulls him back from the edge until he’s relaxed and pliant under the hands running endlessly over his skin. 

“You can open your eyes,” Dean says as he moves back off of Sam. 

“Wait!” Sam throws up his hands as Dean starts to sink back down to the floor. Dean pauses and Sam takes the chance to run his eyes over Dean’s skin. He’s seen it so many times, more than he could ever remember, knows where freckles cluster and spread out like nebulas and stars, the only universe Sam has ever needed. But this time is different. Dean is flush with lust, a light sheen of sweat standing out on his skin like he’s glowing. 

Sam reaches out to touch, but Dean swats his wrist. “If you’re good, you can touch later,” he says, and then he’s back on his knees and fumbling for the pot of Aquaphor he must have gotten from the first aid kit. He keeps his eyes steady on Sam’s as he unscrews the cap, dips two fingers in, sets the jar aside. Sam spreads his legs wider, cants up his hips. “Anyone tell you you’ve got the most perfect little ass, Sammy?” Dean asks idly, and he reaches out to slide the pad of his middle finger slickly over the furl of Sam’s hole, the lightest touch of pressure, a tickle that has Sam’s fingers scrabbling at the couch cushions and his ass clenching. 

“Relax,” Dean says, voice soft but commanding, and Sam’s body is obeying on instinct now. Dean starts kissing again at the marks he left earlier on Sam’s inner thighs as he continues to rub teasingly with that finger, pressure increasing incrementally over time. Dean glances up. “You done this before?” 

Sam nods. “Twice. To—to myself.” 

Dean groans and presses his forehead into the crease of Sam’s thigh. “So fucking hot, how are you this hot? Jesus fuck,” and then he’s got his mouth on Sam’s balls as he presses his finger in past the ring of muscle. Sam’s cock jumps towards his belly, and he fists the fabric of the couch in an effort not to touch himself. 

“Opening up for me, just like that,” Dean says as he pushes and twists his finger in deeper, and Sam thinks maybe there’s a little wonder in his voice and it maybe makes Sam blush a little bit, which seems ridiculous under the circumstances. But then Dean’s mouth is sliding back over his dick, and he’s sucking Sam and fucking into him with his finger and Sam can’t focus on anything but the heat of Dean’s mouth, the stretch as Dean starts to work a second finger inside. Dean pulls off for just long enough to offer “You can come whenever you want,” and then he’s back to work, fingers brushing the spot inside Sam he’s only ever read about on the internet but couldn’t find himself, and Sam’s whole brain sparks over with lightning. Dean brushes it again and that’s it, he’s coming into his brother’s mouth as the litany of “Dean, Dean, oh,” that had been spilling from his lips gets choked off with a cry. 

He collapses back onto the couch, boneless, as Dean slides his fingers out and rises to his feet again. He holds out a hand wordlessly, and Sam gives Dean his own. Dean flips it over, palm up, and spits a mess of his own spit and Sam’s come into it. Sam thinks he should probably protest on principle, but it’s more hot than disgusting, and also he’s kind of delirious. 

Dean steps in close, closes the mess of Sam’s hand around the erection at Sam’s eye level. It’s fierce, almost purple with blood and the veins look they want to burst, and Sam realizes that where Dean was at least touching him _some_ of the time, Dean hasn’t been touched _at all_. He sits up a little straighter, tightens his grip, starts jacking Dean’s cock with purpose, grabs Dean’s hip with his other hand so he can get leverage. 

The groan that falls out of Dean’s mouth vibrates down through Sam’s fingers, and he squeezes Dean’s hip harder, twists his hand more firmly, watches Dean completely come apart. He’s never blown a guy, but what Dean did to him was _incredible_ , and he’s thinking about trying it, leaning forward and nuzzling his nose against Dean’s balls when Dean suddenly cries out. Sam pulls back just in time to get a few spurts of come on his chin, the rest getting all over his hand and maybe the carpet. 

Sam’s staring up at Dean’s face in awe as Dean slowly opens his eyes, blinking a few times like the world around him is out of focus. The come on Sam’s chin tickles a little as it slides down, so he rubs it off unthinkingly with his messy hand, leaving behind what’s probably a bigger mess with a wet smear of his thumb. He glances down at his hand, shiny with Dean’s spit and Dean’s come and come of his own. He looks back up at Dean, who’s staring down at him with his lips slightly parted. 

He sticks his thumb in his mouth, sucks off the taste of both of them, and then Dean is collapsing like his knees have stopped working, falling into a sprawl across Sam’s lap. He gets his hands on either side of Sam’s face, tilts it back, kisses him, deep and dirty. Sam’s cock twitches where Dean’s, cool and wet, presses against it. He wraps his arms around his brother, hands cupping Dean’s ass (which is a lot more perfect than his own, if he does say so himself) and pulls his brother in. 

He doesn’t know how long they make out, but Dean finally slows it down, landing closed-mouth kisses against Sam’s lips, the corner of his mouth, his chin. Sam flexes his fingers against the muscle of Dean’s ass underneath, and Dean shudders lightly. 

“Can’t believe you touched me with that hand.” 

Sam snorts a laugh. “I licked it and then _you kissed me_. I don’t think semen-skin contact should be much of an issue.” 

Dean gets out of his lap as gracefully as Sam thinks someone who’s had his legs folded up under him for a while possibly could. “I need a shower.” 

Sam grabs Dean’s hand with his clean one, pulls himself to standing. “Nap first, then shower.” 

Dean starts tugging him down the hall. “Wash your hands first. Then nap. Then shower. No cuddling.” 

Sam ducks into the bathroom. Like Dean isn’t the one who’s always got an arm around Sam when they’re hanging out on the couch or in the backseat together. He catches his reflection in the mirror, realizes at some point Dean sucked a few hickies into his chest. He grins widely. “Nap, then you fuck me, then we shower,” he offers as he dries his hands and Dean steps up to use the sink. Dean snickers and shakes his head but doesn’t respond. 

Dean doesn’t say anything until they’re sprawled out in the queen-size bed Dean sleeps in when Dad isn’t home. “Sam,” he says, and his voice is careful. “I’ve never...I’ve never fucked another guy, and you—you’re only sixteen—.” 

Sam props himself up on his elbows and glares down at Dean hotly. “Don’t start with me, Dean,” he snaps. 

Dean holds up a hand. “I just meant—how about you fuck _me_ first, and we’ll go from there.” 

Sam cannot repress the shiver that runs down his body. He presses himself up close to Dean’s side. “Let’s skip the nap.” 

Dean laughs and shoves him off. Sam flounces his head down into the pillow as petulantly as possible, but he can’t help the grin that splits his face as he feels Dean press up against his back and sling an arm around his waist. 

It’s quiet for a long moment. “Are you gonna freak out?” Sam asks softly. 

Dean considers the question. “Dunno.” There’s a long pause. “Are you sure this is what you want?” 

“Yes,” Sam replies immediately. “Is it what you want?” he asks, and it’s more hesitant. 

Dean presses a kiss to the base of his neck. “Yeah, Sammy. ‘s what I want.” 

“Okay then,” Sam says, matter-of-fact, because for him, that’s the end of the discussion. 

“Okay then,” Dean replies, and Sam lets himself drift to sleep.


End file.
